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2014-03-25 - Stark Expo: Life Model, Decoy.
The phone calls was left ignored. It's not that she didn't hear it. Or see it. Or know that it was him. It's just that Natasha didn't want to answer. So she let it ring until it went to voicemail. And then she stares at the holoID, blankly. She was better than this. So she tucks the ID away, left the exhibit hall, and made her way back to the hotel suite. She pulls the LMD controller out-- if James wanted to talk to her, he could damn well do it on her terms-- and activates it as she pulls it over her head and eyes. There's a second of disorientation as she connects with the distant body. After a few moments, her real body is more an afterthought, a niggling feeling in the back of her head. She knows it's there, and with a second's concentration will herself back to it, but for now, she is completely meshed within the LMD. It feels real. She can hear her heart beat, hear her own breathing. She can taste and smell the-- Metallic tang of the air inside her apartment's safe room/armory. This is /not/ where she shut down the LMD last. She can feel the lingering soreness in her muscles from the awkward position she had been dumped in. She winces, pulling herself to a sitting position first, then standing. There is a sound, distant, in the other room, of someone working out. The quick inhale/exhale of breath gives it away. Bucky is in the living room, having pushed the couch over a little, and doing balance push-ups, perfectly, each of his hands instead of on the floor, on fully inflated basketball that could slip out and roll at any given time if there is an imbalance in the push, or body movement. And to make the exercise even more gruelling, his feet, too, are also on a basketball; or one is. The other is crossed over the back of the ankle. At least there aren't any signs he'd been drinking, about. No empty vodka bottles, or beer bottles. There is, however, a DVD tossed on the coffee table; a 1940's cowboy movie. Natasha stretches, and the sounds of a back popping in several places might be heard from within the bedroom. Ugh. They make these things /far/ too real. She rolls her shoulders and pops her neck as well. And then makes a /note/ to explain to James that even if it /is/ a damned robot, when she's in it, she has to feel the damages. She takes a moment once she is uncrumpled to listen-- and hears the sounds of a workout in the living room. She moves to the door of the saferoom, pushing it open from within. She doesn't say anything, though she takes another step or so into the bedroom, weighing what she will say. The workout continues, for another good minute, even breathing, though somewhat strained, concentrated. Who knows how long he'd been at this, after the calls hadn't gone through? He figured the first time, she just wasn't there. So, he'd waited. Didn't 'get' leaving a voicemail. Second time, he heard the mechanical voice tell him about voicemail. Left her one. And wasn't sure it'd gone through, right. So he called her back, left more or less the same message. And, when he hadn't gotten a call within a half hour, figured he still hadn't done it right ... ... then he just figured, after the fourth time, she was mad at him. And he'd just stopped. And started working out to center himself, rather than drink himself into a stupor - he was, afterall, now Captain America II. Or, something like that. And, a drunk Cap showing up on the scene, if there was a scene, wouldn't be good. The bedroom door opens, and she stands there in the doorway, still in the same damaged catsuit, watching him. She's silent for a few moments. After all, that takes balance. Finally, she clears her throat. There's a few breaths, as he steadies himself, lowers himself back down, then allows his knees to drop, carefully, then righting himself up. He looks winded, and his breath comes rapidly, but not entirely out of breath. It's another moment or two before he stands up, nods. "Figured I wouldn't see you in that for awhile," is all he says, at first. "Ah." James nods. Pauses, "Sorry about the duffle bag. But, I figured you didn't want it to be found in the middle of the hallway. And carrying a prone body of a SHIELD agent and Avenger down the street over my shoulder probably wouldn't have been the wisest maneuver." The man shifts, to go get a glass of cold water from the fridge. "Stark walked in on you." It doesn't take the World's Greatest Detective to figure that out. Natasha doesn't reply one way or the other, the closest thing James will get to a yes. "My attentions were needed elsewhere." She crosses her arms, watching him. "You called? You needed something?" So cruel. So, so cruel. Making him actually. Talk. He closes the fridge, takes the water. He nods, once. "Why Stark? The man's a genius, no doubt. I owe him getting my head on straight. And, for the Shield. And the opportunity. But the man is dangerous. Reckless. And. Clueless." Nothing like either Alexi, or himself. Or, for that matter, even Clint. He holds up his hand, then, before she can even answer. "It doesn't matter. Look. This is driving us both insane." "What is?" Natasha responds quietly, arms still crossed. She doesn't answer his first question, of course. She was cold, drawing from all her years of training-- those he helped with, and all the training after he had been 'put away'. "Right." And, he doesn't discuss it any further. If she's not going to talk about it? Neither is he. He can be an ass, too. "I just need to know you're not going to have any problems with me joining the Avengers. It's where the new Captain America belongs." "Why would it?" Natasha shrugs, regarding him with glittering eyes. "You would not be the first man on the team I had slept with," she says icily. Maybe it was a bit of a cutting barb. "If that's all you are worried about, then don't be." She turns, as if she's retreating back into the bedroom-- which she is. "No. What I'm worried about is you," James admits, frowning. "You were always good on a mission, Natalie. Always listened. That's why you survived, in my training. You paid attention." The others? Mistakes were made, most likely. Things he'd told them to do, or not to do, that in a second of panic, or worry, were forgotten. And it cost many. "But you never looked after yourself." "You never had to look after me." Well. Except that one time. When his brainwashing went haywire. And he was recovering. But that totally doesn't count. "Are you coming back? Or are you staying. In Malibu." "I don't know," Natasha replies. "Why does it matter?" She reaches up, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Because I want you to come back. And stay here," is James' reply, though he doesn't close the distance. It's likely as close as he's going to come to expressing any feelings for the redheaded woman, right now. Natasha turns to regard him, still cold. He may not close the distance, but she does, until she is right in front of him, looking up slightly to meet his eyes. "Why?" she asks, pointedly. "For you," James says, irritably, and somewhat hard, and harsh, but with more emotion than he's shown in a long while, since becoming Bucky again, "It's been decades. For me, it's been years. And I still love the woman that left me, because I was kept in stasis." He's not going to beat around the bush. Or, get all awkward. No. That's unlikely to happen. He's a man of the 40's. He doesn't talk about his feelings, too much. But neither does he back away, when pressed. "Because Stark is making you weak." Natasha's hand reaches up and caresses his cheek lightly. "James..." she closes her eyes. "I have the children I /must/ think of. And more than that." She chews at her lower lip, then opens her eyes again, wanting to kiss him, wanting to slide into his arms and forget about the last few decades and pretend for an hour or two or more that none of it ever happened. Instead, she stands there, her fingertips running along his cheek, standing close to him, but not daring to move any closer. The man's eyes narrow, some, but not unkindly. There's an understanding of the reasons given. Just not acceptance, or liking of it. But he doesn't brush the hand away, either. And, that might be his hand sliding around her waist. "I will be watching Stark." It's not -quite- a threat. But there is something dangerous, there. "I have things to think about, too, Natalie. And you are one of them." Natasha forgets, or as close to it as she can, that she's somewhere else, in a body that's not technically her own, as much as it feels and looks like it. She nods, and as his hand slides around her waist, she melts closer to him, instinctively, leaning up to almost kiss him. Almost. She remembers at the last moment his response to the LMD last time. "James," she says quietly. "If I were not across the country, I would have..." she trails off. She sighs, resting her head against his shoulder. "It feels real to me, too," she finally offers up. "I understand," she replies in answer to his comments about Stark. And thinking. "I do too." This time, he doesn't shove her away. But then, she's not kissing him, either. The flesh - as synthetic as it is, feels real. The scent, real. The warmth of her body. For a long, silent moment he just holds her to him. Unwilling to let go - as if he, holding onto her, could make her real. Or, get her to change her mind. Of course, he knows better, in his head. "This time, no stasis." She swallows, not pulling away. The last time she was held by him like this-- not including the funeral, no, we can't think about that-- was so long ago. Right before they took him away, put him in stasis. She doesn't even want to tell him what sort of training they had in store for her after they were done letting him teach her what he knew. He may not be the brainwashed Winter Soldier, but he was still a dangerous man. One, if not, the most dangerous one she knew. It wouldn't do for the new Cap to start out his career with blood running from bare hands. But there was something comforting about this-- the way he smells, the way his heart beats, how his arms wrap around her. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine it being so long ago. Sentimentality is the death of a spy. How many times had she heard that? How many times did they remind her? Care for nothing but duty. Love nothing but your motherland. Trust no one but your comrades, and even then, sparingly. "No stasis," she murmurs back, resting a hand on his chest, the other sliding around his neck. He picks her up. Effortlessly. And, he carries her - it - into the bedroom. And sets her, gently, on the bed, moves, to lay beside her. Asks only, "At least stay, until I fall asleep." It's - familiar. Comforting. Her warmth. Beside him. He's just still too old fashioned, knowing it's really not her. Even if it is her brainwaves, and as real as the real thing could be faked to be - it isn't -her-. Natasha nods, curling up with him, nuzzling against him. "Not going to shower first?" she teases gently, though she's already gotten comfortable beside him.